


There is no Rush

by witchspellbook



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), I hope, M/M, Mild Smut, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Post-Canon, She/Her pronouns for Aziraphale, Short & Sweet, super mild angst, they are making love yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:26:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchspellbook/pseuds/witchspellbook
Summary: They have done this before. But not like this.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68





	There is no Rush

**Author's Note:**

> this started because im writing nanowrimo and got distracted. also cuz i remembered a fanart i saw like 2 months ago that said something about crowley peeling aziraphale's clothes like a present. idk if i got that vive but whatever, im kinda pleased with this.

They have done this before. They have done this before, messy and quick and despairing, clothes thought into oblivion, body part wished into giving in, wetting up. Quick, quick, quick, hands and mouths and hair. Quiet. Drowning sobs into pillows, into kisses. Drowning sobs into hands when parted and alone.

They had done this before, if only a couple of times. Stealing kisses from unwilling lips, stealing breathes from heated bodies, stealing time.

They had time now, they had time.

It’s bright outside and Crowley has Aziraphale crowded against the desk of his office.

It’s been a month since the world hadn’t ended, it’s been a month since they had faced heaven and hell and lived. It’s been a month since they had held hands and two weeks since they had hugged and five days since they had kissed. In the open air of St. James Park, to be seen and witnessed by all, trembling hands and soft touches and they had expected the world to stop spinning. To all come crashing down. It hadn’t happened. They still were left breathless and afraid and bubbling with euphoria.

They had kept kissing, hesitant and quick and desperate. Hiding between bookshelves, between leaves, mapping bodies with hands over clothes they hadn’t dare take away yet.

Slow and calm tasting of cocoa and espresso, tracing each other’s hands, each other’s faces.

Crowley has Aziraphale crowded against the desk of his office and they have never done this in the light of the day.

They are not kissing, glasses forgotten while Aziraphale traces the sharp line of his cheekbone, staring.

They have time to look, mouths ajar and soft truths. Fevered eyes and mixed breaths.

Crowley brushes the edge of the bowtie and pulls it; it slides for him. They have time. He kisses it and puts it aside, next to Aziraphale’s hand latched to the desk and kiss him. It’s not enough, it will never be. Soft and plush, close mouthed, slow. They both want this, they do, but they have time now. So, with his long fingers Crowley unbuttons Aziraphale’s waistcoat, feeling the worn-out velvet, slow, slow. Aziraphale only breaths to feel Crowley’s air inside of him.

It’s obscene. The way Crowley’s fingers move. Like they were made to disrobe. They probably were. No. Not really. There is an ache to them, a self-imposed purpose. Crowley has been waiting. And Aziraphale aches for him.

He guides the waistcoat down Aziraphale’s shoulders, light, with a caress that goes from shoulders to wrists and he takes one of them to kiss it. To uncuff it. Then the other. Aziraphale’s skin is cool and his pulse beats strong under the thin skin, like it wants to jump out of its veins, like it wants to reach Crowley. He wraps that hand around his face to kiss the palm, rough and trembling. He wraps that hand around his heart, it’s always been there, Aziraphale knows. He can tighten it and Crowley would let himself bleed. He has done it. A selfish test. Something out of fear. He holds Crowley’s heart in his hands, beating warm, beating strong under his palm, under Crowley’s henley.

“Hurry”

“No”

They’ve done this before. They have time. There is no rush. Crowley brushes his fingers to the buttons of the angel shirt, and they surrender to him. One by one by one.

Crowley’s spit is hot in Aziraphale’s skin and he gasp because they’ve done this before but never like this. Fire lines on his skin from soft fingertips. Fire marks from thin lips. A brand straight to his soul. Aziraphale aches. With every gentle bite, with every breath over his skin. He aches.

When Crowley falls to his knees and ask to pray to him, every night, angel, in the altar of your bed I will pray, if you have me, I will pray. Aziraphale falls for him too.

“Get up, don’t, don’t, don’t worship me, I’m not worthy, love me, take me to bed, don’t worship me. Lay me on your bed, consume me but don’t worship when you are far better than me”

They’ve done this before. But there is no rush now. No when Crowley has undressed Aziraphale like a present, like a sacred thing. No when they rise hand in hand eyes locked and heated skin.

No when they can kiss in every door frame, in every room, with every step. By the time they reach the bed Crowley’s clothes have gone back to the strands of firmament they were made from and Aziraphale can touch. Can taste.

Aziraphale wants to sink to his knees and take him into his mouth. There will be a time for that, there is no rush.

They have time now, to hug so they do. Chest to chest, breathing in, breathing out, salt smoke and book dust. “I love you” Crowley whispers to his neck. “I love you” he whispers to his temple. “I love you” to his mouth, to the tears gliding from his eyes. The words are long overdue. Centuries, millennia. They both ache them.

Aziraphale loves him back, always had.

They kiss, slow and deliberate before falling into bed. And Aziraphale is ready, there is time, but he can’t wait, and he is ready. Wet and warm for Crowley who kiss down his chest, who undoes his trousers and think his shoes off.

Crowley tosses his trousers away and they land folded over a chair and Aziraphale laughs, because Crowley is patient but not so much, because Crowley folded his trousers.

“A twat?”

“It’s faster”

Crowley chuckles and Aziraphale wants to drink that smile.

“Come here. You can taste me later, come here”

They kiss again. It will never be enough. Crowley kiss him and feels him down. Last time they had done it like this it had been fast, ruthless, Aziraphale’s breast spilling out of her dress, Crowley’s hands between her skirts, clasping over her breasts, sinking his teeth on her neck, spilling tears and come on her skin. Quick, quiet. Dirty, and angry. Angry at everything except each other. Now Crowley’s fingers soothe him, soothe into him. Inciting him into wetness, inciting him into moans and Crowley is in him, easing into him breathing himself calm and Aziraphale moans and demands and kisses and Crowley will have him begging one day. They have time to think those kinds of thing now.

They are loud, they can be now, hailing each other’s names, praying to each other’s. The words are whispers because it’s just for the two of them but now they scream because they have been quiet for six millennia and their lungs haven’t collapsed on themselves with the weight of that silence so now they scream.

When Aziraphale comes he is brighter than sunlight and Crowley is moaning his name, a mantra woven of love. He comes soon too, scales racing up his calves, shining black and iridescent by Aziraphale’s light, clawing at the mattress, absolutely in love.

They lay together tangled and Crowley wants to sleep and Aziraphale wants to eat and both want to do it all over again and it’s fine they don’t have to hide, there is no rush.

They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!


End file.
